


there and back again

by piphes



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Drama & Romance, Elsamaren Summer 2020 (Disney), F/F, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25328383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piphes/pseuds/piphes
Summary: The two most powerful warriors are patience and time. -Leo TolstoyElsa is a victim (and a hero) of the latter. Honeymaren embodies the former.Inspired by The Time Traveler's Wife and the prompt "I will always love you"
Relationships: Elsa/Honeymaren (Disney)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 57
Collections: Elsamaren Summer 2020





	there and back again

**Author's Note:**

> gahhh I had this inspiration like two days ago for this prompt  
> and here is this mess of a story, posted riight before midnight (and if you're later than pst than sorry for the sacrilege)  
> let me know what you think! i'm rather proud of this considering i take an age to write anything of quality, but you might read it and go "piphes this is so confusing and nonsensical and you must f i x i t" and if it needs fixing i wanna know  
> (also shoutout to the other summer stories, because they're brilliant)

_———27 January 1848———_

How naive she was, thinking that Ahtohallan was merely a holding place of memories. Now she knows better, knows that it is neither observer nor collector. It is a ruler.

Of not just the past, but the future.

The first time it happens, Elsa is deep in meditation. The other spirits can dissolve into their element—even the Earth Giants, which somehow melt and mold their enormous bodies to vanish into the ground. Elsa thinks it must be possible for her as well, and when the noise of the world fades into oblivion for moments shorter than a heartbeat she thinks she's doing it, because she feels like nothing and everything all at once. So she sits deep in the forest, as still as the cave of ice surrounding her, until some hours or days or weeks later she opens eyes that aren't there, utters a mouthless gasp that comes out as a wisp of flurries.

Then she feels it. A pull sharper than anything, more magnetic than the call of the forest or even of solitary mountainous freedom, all those years ago. It doesn't even occur to Elsa to resist, and her body, the tiny snowstorm of it, is moving almost instantly in response. The world is a blur around her. She doesn't know where she is or where she's going but this feels so instinctive that she can't muster up any emotion but _purpose_. The pull gets stronger the closer she gets, until it is almost unbearable. She aches to go faster—and somehow with that thought she does, until even the wind falls behind.

For one brief, shining second she stops, or her essence does, anyway, and the urge to laugh rises inexplicably because she's in Ahtohallan, of _course_ it's Ahtohallan-

Then everything twists and squeezes into nothingness, and with a jolt that feels like it rattled her very soul she's flung down beside the forest river, nearly sliding into the water, until a hand grasps her own and hauls her deftly away from the edge.

“Dear me, child,” says the hand’s owner, a tall thin woman with a face full of wrinkles and a head full of jet black hair, seemingly unperturbed at Elsa’s sudden arrival. Her words are thick and deliberate, an odd accent hanging on them. Elsa stares at her, open-mouthed, and the woman gives her a challenging look. “Do put some clothes on, Elsa,” she says.

Elsa glances down at herself and freezes in embarrassment. Literally freezes—ice spreads, crackling, from her feet, even as she conjures a dress around her body with a neckline that's halfway to her chin.

“I-I'm sorry,” she stammers, mortified. “I don't know what's going on. I—who are you?” And at this the woman's face softens into a look of understanding.

“Is this your first time, then?”

“My— _what_ ?” Elsa gapes, filling in the implication from her earlier nakedness. _But she's so old,_ her mind protests. (She files away the idea that she doesn't mind her propositioner being a woman for later examination.)

“Your first time traveling,” the woman answers, although the twitch of her lips suggests that she knows where Elsa’s thoughts went. “Or rather, your first _time traveling_.”

And now Elsa is speechless altogether.

The woman gestures to the river. “Take a look.” And since a river is much less complicated than the concept of _spacetime manipulation_ , Elsa diverts her attention, and notices immediately. She may have only been living in the forest for two months, but-

“It's flowing backwards,” she murmurs, her mind racing. “But then–the waterfall–” She glances toward it, and indeed water seems to be streaming upwards, ignoring gravity with indecent nonchalance. A shiver runs down her spine.

“No one can get close to it,” the woman tells her. “But something is wrong. I bet you can feel it.” Elsa could definitely feel it. A malevolence in the air, becoming more and more obvious as her disorientation faded.

“Ahtohallan protects the forest. When we are in need, it comes to our aid.” The woman favors her with a deliberate look. “It sends us its champion, _whenever_ she is needed.”

_Its champion._

The words resonate in her head, and Elsa steels herself. “What year is this?” 

“You told me once that it was best if you didn't know the exact date,” the woman says, a sliver of sympathy leaking into her businesslike tone. “Otherwise you'll be tempted to interfere beyond your purpose, and you’ll lose time when you return.” Elsa nods, reluctantly understanding. She already knows that if she was ever sent close enough to her grandfather’s time... 

“What information _can_ you give me?” she sighs.

Finally, the woman smiles. “My name is Rana. By my best guess, you will be born in another few centuries.”

_———11 February 1848———_

Elsa hovers in a cloud of ice, finding it easier to stay calm when she can't hear her heartbeat thudding in her chest. The first mission, with Rana and the river and...whatever that awful creature was, had happened two weeks ago. Since then, she had stopped meditating, reasoning that she was merely waiting until the claw marks on her leg were healed. Of course it was an excuse, but her entire self-conception had been upended as unceremoniously as a bucket of water. If Ahtohallan could only pull her away in her spirit form, well, she wasn't going to go back in it until she was ready to travel. 

But yesterday evening she had been in the middle of a conversation with Honeymaren, human as could be, and the pull had struck her like a hammer, latching on somewhere behind her navel.She was gone instantly, resisting to no avail, and flurrying back into solidity within seconds at the entrance of a tunnel. Luckily Maren had gone to fetch a blanket, so she didn't see it happening, but by the time Elsa returned from the cave-in, night had long since fallen.

She still doesn't know what sort of excuse she’s going to make for abandoning her friend without warning. Part of her just wants to be honest. She has a feeling that Maren will understand—she is always so understanding. 

But what can she say? _“Sorry, the future called and it doesn't take no for an answer.”_ No, the truth is, Elsa isn't quite ready to tell anyone. How can she be, when she doesn't even know her own feelings about it all? It's odd enough to hear the few surviving legends of the fifth spirit and realize that it's _her_. That maybe it always has been, and maybe it always will be just her. The so-called champion of the glacier. And Elsa wants to help—she didn't hesitate before setting off into the tunnel—but it rankles that after twenty-four years of looking for freedom, all she's found is another role to play.

She feels more than hears the footsteps crunching across the snow. Elsa transforms immediately, concentrating hard on reforming her ice dress as quickly as possible. The sleeves have barely crystallized onto her skin when Maren steps into the clearing.

“Honeymaren,” Elsa breathes, more skittish than she has a right to be. Part of it is from apprehension, but part of it is just Honeymaren herself, her eyes gleaming from the brightness of the snow.

_Almost as soon as she thought about it, slowly wrapping bandages around her leg, she understood. Once she considered the idea of loving a woman, it was obvious enough that the way she longed for Maren’s touch, the way Maren had taken up permanent residence in her thoughts—those were not signs of mere friendship._

“Elsa,” Maren returns evenly. There is no anger in her expression, but it's clear what's on her mind. Maren crosses the clearing towards her, and when she doesn't stop Elsa’s heart nearly does. But Maren brushes past her to dust off the snow from a fallen log, perching lightly on its end. _Foolish_ , Elsa chides herself, even as a part of her mind imagines an alternate ending instead.

“I'm sorry about last night,” Elsa says quickly, before her thoughts can derail her composure entirely. “Something came up with the spirits, and I didn't have time to-”

“It's okay,” Maren answers, offering her a grin. “I figured it was something important. Did you get it all sorted, then?”

 _Tell her_. The instinct is strong, enough to make Elsa hesitate for a second before she lies, “Yes.”

Maren studies her carefully, and Elsa has to fight the urge to wring her hands together. “You know you can tell me if it's not,” she says softly. “I want to be here for you. I’m your friend, no matter what.” The words are meant kindly, but she struggles not to flinch. _Only a friend?_ she wonders, pitifully. 

Maren taps a hand against the log in invitation, but Elsa knows that a lack of space from her _friend_ is not what she needs right now. “I'm really alright, Maren,” Elsa insists, firmly enough that she nearly believes it. “Just a bit tired.”

“Okay,” Maren concedes, standing up. “But don’t work yourself too hard, alright?” Elsa nods reluctantly, and Maren takes a few steps closer. “I mean it,” she says sternly. “Take a nap or something.”

“Maybe I will,” Elsa sighs. Working her way through the cave-in had taken a long time, and her body’s sleep schedule wasn't about to be fooled by a silly thing like time travel.

“Good. Just don’t sleep through dinner tonight, though,” Honeymaren adds playfully. “You don’t want to miss out on my fried mackerel.” She reaches out to rub Elsa’s shoulder affectionately, and Elsa’s entire mind goes blank with panic. She’s stiff as a board under Maren’s hand, and Maren lets go quickly enough that Elsa knows she noticed.

With one last glance of concern, Maren leaves the way she came, and Elsa stays there for a long time afterward, rooted to the spot by the weight of two secrets.

_———29 March 1848———_

Maren is at the edge of the river checking on her traps when she hears her name.

“Honey!” She spins around immediately, and her mouth drops open in shock.

It’s not just that she didn’t hear Elsa coming, and Maren hears _everyone_ coming. It’s not just the unexpected nickname, which that voice has only ever spoken in her dreams. It’s not even that Elsa’s dress is in the process of materializing (although seriously, _what?_ ), and even as the neckline creeps upward the bottom hem remains scandalously at her thighs.

It’s the set of Elsa’s jaw, the confidence in her stride. Her smile is as wide as Maren has ever seen, foreign on the face of the woman who has been so skittishly avoidant for the past month and a half. Elsa is an entirely new person, and Maren is entirely helpless as Elsa pushes her against the nearest tree and kisses her with enough passion to take her breath away.

 _This has got to be another dream_ , Maren thinks, even as her hands automatically find their place at Elsa’s hips. But Elsa slides her tongue deftly along Maren’s lip and presses closer, molding herself to Maren’s body—and the sheer amount of feeling, the euphoria and surprise and pleasure that surges up in her, it’s all far too intense for Maren to believe that she could be sleeping. “Elsa-” Maren pants, pulling away, but Elsa reattaches her lips to a spot beneath Maren’s jaw, working with wonderful precision, like she’d always known exactly how to make Maren crumble. When she moves to her collarbone, Maren tips her head back instinctively, knocking her skull against the trunk of the tree.

The dull pain brings her back into focus, and with willpower she didn’t know she possessed, Maren grasps Elsa by the shoulders and pushes her gently away. Elsa’s lips and cheeks are red, and she stares like Maren is her entire world, even as surprise flashes through her crystal blue eyes. “Elsa,” Maren says, a little breathlessly, “what is going on?”

“Sorry,” Elsa mumbles sheepishly, crossing her arms. There’s a fading bruise on her wrist that Maren’s sure wasn’t there yesterday. “It’s been a while since I got to travel to you.” She’s blushing, hard, and keeps her gaze in the vicinity of Maren’s knees.

“Since you traveled to me?” Maren repeats, somehow more confused than she was when she was being kissed senseless. “What—your goahti is _right_ next to mine.” And if her voice is a little sharper than she intends, she thinks it might be justified; Elsa’s attitude toward her is changing quickly enough to give her whiplash.

Elsa’s head snaps up, and she looks at Maren as though seeing her for the first time. “Oh,” she says quietly, more to herself than Maren. “Fuck.”

**...**

“So you time travel involuntarily, and you’re in love with me,” Maren says slowly. She isn’t sure which of the two is more unbelievable. “And we’re...married? Do we have kids? Does-”

Elsa shakes her head, cutting Maren off. “I can’t tell you that kind of stuff, Honeymaren. Believe me, it’ll drive you crazy.”

“Ah, so you’re saying my future holds a descent into insanity.” Elsa gives her an exasperated look, and Maren laughs. “Okay, I get it. The here and now. Except the Elsa of here and now is…”

“Neither here nor now,” Elsa finishes. “As far as we both know, there have never been two Elsas in the same time.”

“So why are you swapping places? Why doesn’t my Elsa-” Elsa winces, and Maren amends herself hastily, “-the Elsa of my time just stay here, and you travel to where she is? It would save Ahtohallan some magic, and save you some trouble.”

“I don’t know,” Elsa answers. She takes a moment to form her next words. “I think that it’s to help me learn. I’m not ready for every challenge that I have to face. A journey has to be taken one step at a time, and I won’t grow to be what I need to be if I do it in the wrong order.”

“Very wise,” Maren hums. Elsa smiles at her wryly, as if thinking of an inside joke that Maren doesn’t know yet. _But I’ll know it one day,_ Maren thinks, and the thought is enough to make her lean over and press a kiss to Elsa’s lips. Elsa responds eagerly, twining a hand into her hair, and Maren tugs her into her lap, bracing herself against the wall of her goahti.

“Mare?” a voice comes from outside, and before either of them can react, her darling, idiot brother is poking his head inside. “Have you—oh Spirits!” he squeaks. Maren turns to block Elsa from view as best she can, but even a glimpse is enough to identify the only blonde in the forest. “Nevermind! Sorry, Elsa. I’ll...later-” He motions vaguely away, and disappears before he can finish his sentence.

“Damn,” Maren swears, as she feels Elsa shake against her. “I'm sorry, snowflake.” But Elsa lifts her head up and pushes back her hair and Maren realizes that she's laughing.

“Well,” Elsa chokes out between fits of giggles, “that explains some things.”

**...**

Elsa resurfaces in the hot spring, spluttering, and makes her way slowly to the edge. Ahtohallan has so far deposited her back exactly where she was, but when she's just come from the middle of July, a lake of scalding water is not at all where she wants to be. She's completely exhausted and has the single minded intention of _going to her goahti to sleep_ , which is probably why she doesn't check her (admittedly usually isolated) surroundings as well as she should.

“Elsa?!” 

And this is horribly embarrassing, because that makes it the second time she's been caught naked in as many months and she can form clothes at will, goddamn it. She does so immediately, before anyone else (it would be Maren, with her luck) can stumble upon them.

Ryder averts his eyes immediately. “I'm not doing this on purpose, I swear,” he says, and for some reason his face is almost as red as hers. It's especially odd because the Northuldra are not what she would consider to be overly modest.

“I know,” Elsa reassures him, frosting the water off of her person.

“I'm gay,” Ryder blurts. “Just so you know. I mean, you don't have to worry about...me. I'm actually really happy for you!”

“Happy...for me?” Elsa repeats. She half-glances behind herself, checking to make sure that he isn't talking to some other irritable and exhausted spirit of nature.

“I mean, as long as you're happy?” Ryder fumbles, gesturing in a way that seems like it's supposed to mean something. “You know?”

Elsa gives up trying to understand. “Happy. Yes.”

“Okay,” he looks relieved. “And...I know you could kill me in like, one second, but I have to say something about Maren. She's a big softie, so just...be careful with her, okay?”

“Okay,” Elsa agrees evenly, wrangling her hair into a bun. With a nod to Ryder, she leaves him at the spring.

_What on earth just happened-_

**...**

Two days later, Honeymaren boldly takes a seat beside her at the fire. They haven't been talking much lately, because as strong as Elsa's attraction is, her terror of her feelings and Maren’s obvious lack of them is even stronger. “Hey,” Maren says, quietly enough that no one else can hear. “Will you come with me for a walk? Just for a few minutes.” In the firelight, her irises splinter into a thousand shades of caramel, and Elsa agrees before she can think about it.

“Things have been different between us lately,” Maren says, almost as soon as they're out of earshot. Her hand slips into Elsa’s and squeezes lightly. “I want to clear the air.” She stops abruptly, and pulls Elsa to face her. Her expression is knowing, and Elsa feels a sudden surge of fear.

“I have feelings for you.” And Elsa’s world grinds to a halt.

“You're brilliant and intoxicating and so, so beautiful. I've hardly stopped thinking of you since we first met.” Maren’s voice is steady, as if it costs her nothing to bare her soul like this. “And, if you feel the same, which I think you might…” she trails off, and finally, Elsa can see a flash of her own fears reflected back at her.

Except it might cost Maren nothing to open up, but it costs Elsa everything. She tries, because she wants to tell Maren how gorgeous her eyes are and how she always knows the right thing to say, but in the end her mouth won't form any of the words. Instead, she steps a little closer and meets Maren’s eyes, her pulse picking up when she hears Maren’s sharp inhale. “Yes,” she whispers. “I do.”

Her first kiss is nothing like she’d imagined, and everything she'd hoped for.

**...**

“I have to tell you something,” Elsa whispers. They've been in Maren’s goahti for hours, talking and laughing and kissing, and all the while Elsa works up her courage.

“Shoot,” Maren says, inching closer. She raises one hand to run it through Elsa’s hair, her other hand clasped tightly in Elsa’s.

“Sometimes,” Elsa mumbles, and then she has to swallow, force down her panic so she can get the words out. _It's true whether or not you admit it out loud_. “Sometimes,” she says again, “I travel through time.”

_———21 June 1849———_

It gets easier, now that she has Honeymaren. She makes a habit of telling Maren each morning where she plans to go, and when she's forced to disappear without warning, she sometimes gets back into her own time to find Maren there, waiting for her patiently. Maren makes boxes out of strong, sturdy oak and Elsa coats them in her nevermelt ice, and they bury containers stockpiled with dried meat and weapons and bandages (the only thing that Elsa can't conjure is the food, but Maren insists). Sometimes she is whirled away in the middle of the night and whirls back before the sunrise and she can curl into Maren’s arms and fall asleep like nothing ever happened.

She never sees the forest during the time of the Mist. When she wonders why, Maren tells her not to worry. “You more than anyone understand the idea of fate,” she says, when Elsa starts to become overwhelmed. “Focus on your present, whatever it is; the future will come when it comes.” Elsa takes this advice and stops trying to put together the past and the future like so many ill-fitting puzzle pieces. She's surprised by how much easier she sleeps at night.

And when she's in her own time, Maren is there too. There are game nights and playful bickerings and long, lovely evenings where Elsa concerns herself not with the world, but with _her_ world.

On the summer solstice, Elsa is in the middle of conjuring piles of snow for the children to play with, and she vanishes right in front of the entire tribe. In the seconds between times, she feels a flash of resentment for being torn away from a celebration. Then she is deposited practically on top of a different Maren walking in the woods, and they both shriek and tumble to the ground. 

“Honey!” Elsa gasps, scrambling upright and pulling the other woman to her feet. “Where is the disaster—what's happening? Are you in danger-”

“Breathe, darling,” Maren says, with a strange smile. Then she pulls her into a hug, and Elsa can see strands of gray in the deep brown of her braid. “There is no trouble that I know of.” 

“But then...why am I here?” 

Maren leans back and beams at her, the wrinkles around her eyes lingering afterward. “Sometimes, Ahtohallan sends you to me.” She cups a hand against Elsa’s cheek, and Elsa kisses her fiercely, glad that she will not have to risk her life today.

Still, there must be a reason that she's here and now, specifically. She glances around at the trees, which are showing the first signs of autumn, and a thought occurs to her. “Honey, what day is it?”

Maren stiffens, and Elsa knows that she's onto something. “You said that I shouldn't tell you the year.”

“I don't want to know the year,” Elsa grins. “I want to know the month and day.” Maren looks away and mutters inaudibly. “What was that?” Elsa teases, winding her arms around Maren’s neck.

“Flurry up a damn dress already, you exhibitionist,” Maren growls, trying hard to keep a smile off her face.

Elsa releases her and twirls in a circle, making no effort to cover herself up. (Maren at this age must have seen every inch of her body anyway.) “Could it be September sixteenth?” Elsa wonders aloud.

“Yes, _fine_ , it is,” Maren sighs, and Elsa is so excited that a few snowflakes materialize above their heads. In her time, it's only June, but she's already working on a birthday present for Maren, a blanket embroidered with the constellations.

“Well, I guess the birthday suit is a more appropriate look for you, then,” Elsa says, conjuring a snug purple halter dress that ends mid-thigh (Maren loves her legs). She dances back to Maren and presses a dainty kiss to her cheek.

“I’ll leave it to you, since you pull it off so much better,” Maren smiles, looping their arms together and beginning a slow walk through the woods.

“Where is your girlfriend? It's not very nice of her to abandon you today,” Elsa asks.

“She couldn't be here,” Maren answers, a strained look crossing her features. “The world, it seems, can only handle one Snow Queen in any given time.”

“Is she gone because I'm here?” Elsa frowns. 

“No,” Maren says firmly. “She is gone, and that is why you are allowed to be here.”

“I'm sorry,” Elsa says, feeling small. Maren handles Elsa and her faults and her problems so wonderfully, and sometimes Elsa thinks that she's only good for trouble. _She could have anyone_ , she thinks.

“Don't apologize, darling,” Maren turns to face her, mirroring her movements on the day she revealed her feelings. “I love my wife more than anything in the world, whenever she is.”

It takes Elsa a moment to understand, for the elation to begin thrumming through her body. She wants to do something, to show Maren how much that means to her, how much _she_ means. Magic rises up from her toes like a relentless song, it pours into her hand, and with the flick of her wrist a bird soars into being, swoops through the air and lands on Maren’s shoulder. A sparrow. 

“Elsa,” Maren murmurs, awestruck, as the sparrow flutters to her hand. It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing that Elsa has ever created—intricate, gleaming, pure _living_ ice. Not sewn together from a memory, but conjured, by force of will and magic.

The sparrow chirps. “Happy birthday, Maren,” Elsa says.

They spend a day and a night together, and Elsa doesn't spare another thought for the summer solstice.

_———06 February 1852———_

Maren waits.

Sometimes, the waiting feels like the most important thing she'll ever do. Maren knows that she will be forgotten when she dies, that even if her grandchildren and great-grandchildren remember her name, her memory will eventually be gone. But Elsa—she is changing the world. She is saving it, in all its past and present and future predicaments. She will endure, and if anything of Maren endures, it will be her love for Elsa. 

It's a bit dramatic, she'll admit. But there isn't much else to think about. Elsa seems to have been summoned while going for a walk in the southern part of the woods, and Bruni only took her up to the deep woods when she asked. If only there was snow, she could track the footprints, and for the first time Maren isn't grateful for the mild winter.

Perhaps Elsa could start leaving a signal behind. If she carried around a staff, or wore a hat, or…

Or a bracelet.

They've been together for nearly four years now, long enough for Anna to start referring to her as a sister. Most of the tribe acts as though they're already married, anyway. They're allowed to share a tent—although, come to think of it, perhaps no one is brave enough to confront the fifth spirit. Even her own heart, when she asks it, patters out _this is it, she's the one I’ve been waiting for._ Maren allows the idea of an engagement to settle into her mind, and stores it away for another time.

Then she hears Elsa’s voice, distant but audible. And it isn't calling out a greeting, or Maren’s name. 

Maren swings down from the branch and starts sprinting towards the source of the scream. “Elsa?” she shouts. “Elsa, where are you?” 

“Maren!” Elsa’s voice cracks, like she's using all her strength to call out. She's close, and Maren tears through the woods, shoving branches out of the way with the sort of disrespect that would earn her a stern look from Yelena. She shoulders her way through a persistent thicket of brambles, and freezes.

Elsa is curled on the ground, thrashing feebly like a wounded animal. The side of her lovely white tunic is in tatters, what's left of it stained a deep, foreboding red. Maren rushes forward, and stops, terror making her unsure of herself. Elsa lets out a long, low moan, and something wrenches in Maren’s heart.

“Gale?” she yells. She's never tried to summon the wind spirit before. She doesn't know if anyone besides the fifth spirit and her sister can even do it. “GALE?!”

…

She stays by Elsa’s side and lets her hand be gripped hard enough to leave bruises. The healers call it an acid burn, and Maren has to look away when they peel away the remnants of her clothing.

It takes Elsa two days to wake up. Maren has hardly left her side, hardly slept, and she cries in relief when she sees those ice-blue eyes open. “What happened?” she asks, reaching for a water skin. Elsa accepts it gratefully, and as her arms tremble Maren has to resist the urge to hold it for her. 

(When Elsa is scared, she draws her pride around her like a cloak. It may have been a drunken Anna who said those words to her, but they're true enough.)

Elsa hands the skin back to Maren, and leans back slowly. Maren watches carefully as her expression cycles through anger, disappointment, and despair, before finally settling on something like resignation. “I lost,” she says quietly. Maren bites her lip, words failing her. Elsa has never lost before. She’s returned with bruises, scrapes, a burn on her leg, a dislocated shoulder, but there’s always a spark in her eyes, the flush of knowing that she did something _right_.

They don't speak of it again, but ever after Maren finds the present a little harder to focus on when Elsa isn't in it.

_———12 March 1852———_

“What do you mean, she’s not here?” Anna demands. “I told her I was coming!”

“She went to Ahtohallan. She said it was calling to her,” Maren says uncomfortably. It’s not _exactly_ a lie, and it’s what they tell the rest of the tribe. They both agreed on that, wanting to avoid the demands for foreknowledge and the like.

Maren doesn’t agree with Elsa keeping the travels a secret from Anna—she tells Ryder nearly everything, and he guesses the rest just from reading her face. They’ve been lucky enough to escape complications during the few hours a week that the two of them spend in Arendelle. But now Elsa is gone who-knows-when; Anna is pacing back and forth, looking more worried by the second, and for a moment Maren thinks that Elsa has a point about hiding her life-threatening missions. “Could something have gone wrong? Do you think she needs our help?”

“I’m sure she’s fine; it’s not uncommon. She might be back soon,” Maren says soothingly, but Anna doesn’t look convinced.

“I don’t know how you put up with her flightiness, Maren,” she sighs. “It drove me crazy enough in Arendelle, and I bet she runs off all the time here.”

 _Oh, you have no idea,_ Maren thinks.

“Anna!” Elsa says, stepping out of their goahti, and Anna whirls on her. Maren scans her for injuries, but Elsa appears fine, although the long sleeves are slightly abnormal. She doesn’t limp as she makes her way over to them.

“What—how did you get in there?” Anna exclaims. Maren had fearfully allowed her only the shortest possible glimpse into their goahti, afraid that Ahtohallan would send her girlfriend back at that exact moment. It was still long enough for Anna to see that the tent had been empty.

“Magic,” Elsa answers, infuriatingly casual. Anna grumbles at that but pulls her into a bone-crushing embrace (Maren’s ribs ache in sympathy). Elsa meets her eyes over Anna’s shoulder and gives her a tiny nod, and Maren lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

... 

Even though she never tells a soul, even though she tries never to examine anything too closely, Elsa can’t help but notice some things about the future.

Sometimes, she lies awake late into the night, her mind replaying the enormous demon snake and her even more enormous failure. _It’s your fault_ , a voice whispers, conjuring up images of a village so decimated its ruins don’t even exist in the present, the swath of forest whose magical connection she severed.

In those times, she rolls over to look at Maren, and remembers the little boy with full lips and eyes the color of honey. _You didn’t ruin everything,_ she reminds herself. 

_———19 April 1852———_

Maren feels a cold breeze flicker past her ear, and smiles.

“You sly creature!” Elsa exclaims, crystallizing into existence only a few meters away, and Maren turns from the reindeer she's brought here to brush. Elsa strides forward, the edges of an icy blue robe knitting together, and pokes her in the chest. “I thought you were _so_ _brave_ , confessing your feelings like you did. I thought you handled the news of my traveling _so well._ ”

“I did, though, didn't I?” Maren laughs, thinking back to the blissful confusion of their first kiss. 

“It doesn't count if you already knew about everything!” Elsa protests, and Maren shrugs. Knowing the outcome had certainly made her subsequent declaration of love a little easier. (Not much, though. It was still _Elsa_.) 

Unimpressed, Elsa flicks her in the forehead. “Ow!” Maren whines, reaching up to rub the spot, but she knows she’s smiling like a fool. Elsa hasn't been the same since the incident last winter, and seeing her animated and smiling amidst the splendor of spring brings to mind new beginnings.

“Sorry,” Elsa says, not sounding sorry at all. “I just can't believe how silly I was. Do you realize, the first time that you kissed me wasn't the first time I kissed you?”

“Well, I don't know about you, but mine was a hell of a first time,” Maren winks. Elsa blushes.

——— _27_ _September 1852———_

Elsa tramps out towards the meadow, feeling more than a little irritated. She’d gone all the way to Arendelle and back just to get some star charts for Honeymaren to look at. Maren was absolutely fascinated with the stars, and after Elsa made the mistake of getting her a telescope for her birthday, there was no turning back. Then it turned out that some author in Corona had published a book about calculating the paths of the constellations, which even Elsa had to admit was pretty fascinating. It had finally arrived today, and instead of _just waiting until Friday_ , when they were going to Arendelle _anyway,_ her normally ever-so-patient girlfriend had absolutely _insisted_ on Elsa getting it that very moment.

So there she was, having spent two hours retrieving the book and the charts, only for Maren to pull an Elsa-like disappearing act. Yelena had told her that Maren was setting traps in the forest, and when Elsa had gone to find her she had only seen Ingrid, who told her that Maren was playing with the baby rock giant, who had grunted and pointed in the direction of the meadow.

 _If she isn’t at the meadow,_ Elsa vows, _I am going to freeze her solid in her sleep…_

She crests the final hill and a flock of doves burst into the air. Maren looks radiant in the sunset and precarious on a reindeer, the frontmost of at least a dozen. She executes a flip that must have taken her _forever_ to get right and somehow comes up on one knee. Elsa’s heart lurches right out of her chest, and she’s crying even before Maren can say the words.

She leaves her first engagement bracelet behind in a hot spring one month later, and the second gets buried by a snowstorm that winter.

“It’s okay,” Maren says, an arm around Elsa’s shoulders to keep the weight off her injured ankle. Her bracelet, which took Elsa two weeks to make, is pristine on her wrist, the added ice crystals gleaming faintly in the sun. “I’ve always liked the idea of tattoos.”

_———24_ _May 1855———_

Honeymaren is curled up in bed, ostensibly making her way through a new astronomy book, but mostly just falling asleep. Elsa taught her to read years ago, but the language is so frustrating, silent letters and odd punctuation _—_ after seeing it hundreds of times, Maren still doesn't know what a dash is used for. She much prefers having Elsa read to her, her voice low and smooth and steady, and Elsa likes the book enough to oblige.

Unfortunately, she thinks that Elsa was summoned away during a ride on Nokk, which after only one previous occurrence is already the least preferred location for both of them. Elsa, of course, does not enjoy being unceremoniously dumped into the ocean; she can frost away the water from her person, but the salt crusts into her hair. Honeyaren hates it because she can't help at all if Elsa is injured, and Nokk is so unruly that she can't even manage to figure out an approximate location before he gallops away. She has a pot of water heated by the fire, and now all that’s left to do is wait…

“Maren?” Maren wakes with a start. The oil lamp has burned down almost entirely, and she can just barely make out her wife in the dim light. There isn’t a scratch on her pale form—she rarely gets hurt anymore, thanks to a combination of her incredible command over magic and the fighting techniques that Maren has taught her.

“Hey,” she whispers, rolling over so that Elsa can get into their bed. But Elsa doesn’t move a muscle, and Maren gets the sense that something is very, very wrong.

Throwing back the covers and wincing as her bones audibly creak, Honeymaren pads over to her wife. “Elsa,” she murmurs, in the most soothing voice she can manage, and a heartbeat later Elsa launches herself into Maren’s arms.

“Come sit down,” Maren whispers, steering Elsa toward the pail of water. Elsa doesn’t resist as Maren sits her down, tilts her head back to wet her hair, and starts combing away the salt of the sea. She doesn’t react as Maren runs into a few snarls, whispering an apology. She doesn’t say a word, until Maren has worked her way almost entirely through the blonde waves.

“I went to Arendelle.” Maren stills for a moment, then forces herself to keep going, hoping the rhythmic motion will help. 

“Have you been before?” They don’t talk much about where she’s been, both of them choosing to live as much as possible in the present.

“Twice. I’ve been all over, actually,” Elsa says distantly. “I went to Corona once, and to Asia a few times—a couple months ago, I had to steal this possessed lamp from an evil queen and bury it in the desert, like some sort of fairy tale.” She laughs harshly, and Maren winces at the sound. She sets the comb aside and scoots around to face her wife, who is hollow-eyed and trembling. 

“I saw a royal portrait,” Elsa whispers. “Painted twelve years from now.” Maren waits for the next words, but the dread is already settling in her gut. There’s only one person who could break Elsa like this.

“Anna wasn’t-” Elsa manages, and then a dam bursts inside her—she’s crying and folding in on herself like crumpled parchment, and Maren wraps her up in her arms as best she can, numb with grief for both of them.

——— _01 November 1857———_

When the winter comes, Honeymaren refuses to move.

“You should be putting the tribe first!” Yelena shouts. Wrinkled and frail, her anger is as fearsome to behold as it was when Maren was a teenager. “Elsa will know where to find you when she returns!”

“I have to wait for her,” Maren says stubbornly, but there’s a voice inside her that whispers _if she returns_.

Maren didn’t worry when she woke to an empty bed, the space beside her already cold. She didn’t panic when she had to go to game night alone, five days later. She stayed calm as a week went by, then another, as the tribe’s curiosity faded into silent looks of pity, as their son, Lukas, took his first faltering steps.

_She would never have left like that, not without telling me,” Anna says. The door opens, and Kristoff comes in to sit beside her, their youngest daughter swaddled in his massive arms._

_"She didn’t have a choice,” Maren sighs, knowing that the truth is all she has left. “She was summoned through time.”_

_Surprisingly, it is Kristoff who eventually loses his temper. Anna asks question after question, and with every reluctant answer Maren gives she seems to lose some of her boundless energy, until she looks exactly as exhausted as Maren feels._

She does migrate with the rest of the tribe, and wonders every day whether it was the wrong decision. She strains her ears listening for footsteps that aren’t there, imagines a presence in every icy breeze. In her loneliest moments, she wonders if maybe Elsa hasn’t died in the distant past, isn’t going on some insane quest in the future. If maybe she’s in the present, and just didn’t want to deal with the goodbyes. _She wouldn’t do that_ , Maren thinks, and most of the time she believes it, but in the darkness of the night she thinks about the impossibility of taming a free spirit.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the tribe believes in this far simpler possibility. Even Ryder, one summer’s day, waits for his children to dive into the lake before whispering, “You’re not on your own, Mare. Even if you think you are, you’ve always got a place with us.” Maren thanks him calmly, while her fist clenches hard enough to snap the wooden horse she’s been carving.

She throws herself into the leadership of the tribe, making five-year harvesting plans and assembling inventories detailed enough that even Yelena accuses her of micromanaging. Maren knows full well what she’s doing; if exhausting herself doesn’t make her happy, at least it keeps her in the present.

_———The Beginning———_

Elsa slumps against the icy wall, exhausted beyond measure. The cavern around her is shaped exactly as she remembers, but there's no telltale glimmer, no luminescence signaling the magic, the life.

She finished off the last of her food this morning, and the forest is two miles away. The idea of going all that way only to have to return in the morning is almost more than she can handle. But Honeymaren’s voice surfaces in her head. “ _I refuse to date an all-powerful spirit who doesn't know how to eat properly. How on earth did you ever make it through your reign without starving yourself?”_

Elsa struggles to her feet and walks out to the entrance of the glacier. Slowly, she begins the long trek across the sea, the waters tranquil in the absence of the water spirit. She never could have imagined it, back when she could count her daily human interactions on one hand, but she's grown used to people in general. She misses the lull of families chattering in the evenings, the voices of children clamoring for her attention. More than anything, she misses her wife.

_Don't miss her—do something about it._ That voice isn't Honeymaren's; maybe it's Yelena's. Elsa wonders with a pang if the old woman is still alive, or if Maren has been forced into sole leadership the way she has been forced into single motherhood.

She has to get back to Maren. To Lukas. And that means she has to figure out how to give Ahtohallan its magic.

 _I'm going to figure this out_ . _And then I'm going to go home_ , Elsa vows. But after making that promise every day for a year, it’s begun to seem more than a little hollow.

_———16 September 1858———_

On her birthday, Ryder storms her goahti and demands she take the day off, practically snatching her son out of her arms. “I bet you can’t even remember what the trees look like,” he says, and when Maren goes for a walk she admits privately that she had forgotten just how lovely the autumn is.

Then...oh, then, there is Elsa. For one brilliant moment Maren thinks that it is her wife returned—but then she sees the youth in Elsa’s face, the skin at her hip still smooth and unscarred, and has to swallow the lump in her throat.

Nevertheless, it is a gift. This Elsa, so fresh and beautiful, still has those flashes of Anna-like childishness, the moments of shy awkwardness that Maren hadn't even realized went away. Even after a year with her Maren, she doesn't know Maren’s body inside and out, and Maren feels a spark of smug pride when Elsa is gasping underneath her, mouth open in surprised pleasure. _I've still got it_ , Maren thinks, and in the next moment wants to laugh at herself. _Look at me go, at the tender old age of thirty-two._

“Honey,” Elsa murmurs, fixing her with sky-blue eyes that haven't changed in a decade. “I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with-” And then she's gone in a whirl of ice, as quickly as she came.

 _And isn't that how it always goes?_ Maren thinks bitterly. _Ahtohallan, you bastard._

But the sparrow stays behind, sleeping at one corner of her tent. It spends the days perched on her shoulder, the cold of its icy feet prodding Maren’s skin, and everyone seems to take it as a sign that Elsa really is only on an extended journey. It takes a liking to Lukas, who chases it through camp, stumbling on his tiny legs. Sometimes, in the evenings, Maren catches him talking to it in low whispers. “I caught my firs’ fish today, Mom,” he says, and Maren walks the other way before she starts crying.

She doesn't dare name it, because the only name she can think of for the creature is Elsa, and that feels too much like giving up.

——— _17 March 1860———_

Elsa falls to the ground gracelessly, crawling over to vomit into the nearest bush. The longer the time between travels, the more disoriented she gets. And she isn't as young as she was when she started, not by a long shot.

The clearing around her is bare, with no sign of humanity, and Elsa has one long moment of terror before she realizes that the tribe must have moved for the winter. She can feel the first breath of spring, and hopes that the tribe will be returning soon—she's always preferred the summer campground to the winter.

She doesn't know how long she was gone; there was no way to measure time in the glacier. She thinks it's been two years, maybe three, but all she knows, a decade has passed. Her son could be nearing adulthood.

As soon as she can stand, Elsa makes her way to the shore. The other spirits would have migrated with the Northuldra, but Nokk prefers the fjord to the river. She closes her eyes and calls out silently, and when she opens her eyes again, the water spirit is surfacing in front of her.

Elsa lets out a tiny, happy cry. She knows she couldn't have returned unless she was successful in her task, but there was a difference between knowing, and seeing the concrete proof in front of her. “Oh, how I missed you,” she tells him, reaching out to frost him over, and-

-and her hand goes right through him. “What?” Elsa breathes, horrified. She pulls her dripping hand away and tries to conjure a burst of snow, something she could do when she was two years old.

Nothing.

“No, no no no…” Elsa mutters, collapsing to the ground. Nokk whinnies, but stays where he is, unable to step into the land and comfort her. Elsa stares at her hands, pale and delicate and _useless._ “It must just be exhaustion,” she tells him. “I'll be fine in a couple of days.” She tries to inject confidence into her tone; it's true that if there was ever a time she'd face magical exhaustion, it would be now. But a sinking feeling in her heart tells her otherwise.

“How am I going to find her now?” Elsa asks the water spirit, her voice shaking. “What if she doesn't come back? What if she didn't wait for me?”

Nokk doesn't answer, and eventually Elsa wanders back towards the camp, for lack of anywhere else to go.

And then she sees it.

Elsa moves as fast as she can, which is only a pathetic speedwalk, but eventually she gets there. To a tree right at the edge of the clearing, near where they usually set up their goahti. To the neat and careful carving in the wood.

_E_

~~_left 4 Nov 1857_ ~~

~~_back 21 Mar 1858_ ~~

~~_left 2 Nov 1858_ ~~

~~_back 18 Mar 1859_ ~~

~~_left 7 Nov 1859_ ~~

_back 19 Mar 1860_

  
  
  
  
  


_love always_

_H & L _

Elsa touches the knife strokes, feeling tears well up in her eyes. Of course Maren waited for her—and she left enough space for years, _so many_ more years.

“But you don't have to wait,” Elsa tells the carving. “I'm here. _I'm_ going to wait for _you_.”

——— _19 March 1860———_

“If you want to get off, you can,” Maren tells Lukas, and he nods vigorously. She grins. For someone who loves birds as fervently as he does, her son doesn't seem to care much for any other animals. “Ryder,” she says, “can you take him?” She lifts Lukas off the reindeer and into his uncle’s arms, who groans exaggeratedly at the weight of him.

She's been feeling a little...antsy, today. Like she's supposed to be somewhere, even though she's already _going_ somewhere. On a whim, Maren gives Daisy a light kick, and leaves the rest of her family behind. The sparrow follows, weaving through the branches above. Eventually, they get to the front of the tribe, but Daisy shows no signs of tiredness, so they canter on.

They're almost at the camp, and Maren can feel a smile tugging at her lips. She loves the summer campsite. It's where she met Elsa, and where she got married, and where her son was born. Some members of the tribe want to move to a different place, and perhaps they will soon, but Maren knows that she’ll still come to visit every spring. For Elsa, if nothing else.

If she squints, hard, she can see the clearing, and for a moment Maren sees a distant flash of blonde hair. _Just your imagination_ , she thinks, knowing she's tricked herself a hundred times before. Still, she picks up the pace, until Daisy is galloping at nearly full speed.

And then she sees it. A small burst of snow that sparkles as it falls over the clearing. The pale streak resolves itself into a person, sprinting wildly in her direction. The sparrow swoops low, down to the level of Maren’s shoulder, and begins to sing.

Maren calls out wordlessly, her voice high with joy, and urges Daisy on faster.

She sees the lines on Elsa’s forehead, the thin white scar at her shoulder, and Maren’s heart bursts at the seams, setting every nerve alight. She's laughing and crying long before she's made a clumsy dismount, long before she scoops up her wife to spin her around and doesn't let go for a very long time.


End file.
